


Magic Things

by screamingarrows



Series: Magic AU [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pre-OT3, briefest mention of Waverly, mediocre violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 21:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13039734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: 5 times Napoleon used his magic in secret and the 1 time he was found out





	Magic Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellamysblakes (puddingandpie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddingandpie/gifts).



> This was super fun to write and I hope you enjoy!

**i.**

It was another successful mission and they were celebrating the way they always did: alcohol and music.

Gaby’s swaying to the music and Napoleon grabs her free hand and spins her; they’d both been drinking enough that they’re faces are flushed and the room spins if they move too quickly. Napoleon uses this as an excuse and twirls her into his arms. She moves into him, one hand moving to cup his neck without thinking and the other holding her tumbler of whiskey against his shoulder; she sways against him and blinks her long, long eyelashes up at him. He knows it’s only because of the alcohol, but for a moment it’s easy to forget and he feels hot when she smiles up at him, the hint of a dimple flashing on her cheeks.

The room spins and his breath catches as she blinks again.

The moment’s broken when the phone on their hotel desk rings. Napoleon steps away and looks up; he meets Illya’s eyes and electricity courses through him. The phone rings again and Napoleon jerks. Illya blinks away and stands to go answer. His voice is soft when he picks up the receiver, but it goes hard as Russian falls from his lips. Illya looks up at them and Napoleon sobers immediately. He looks down at Gaby and she grabs his wrist, tugging him towards the bedroom with a frown. Illya nods silently at them and then turns his back, speaking in low tones.

“I hate this,” Gaby says, sitting on the bed. She rubs her hands down her thighs before resting them on her knees. Her face is stony and she looks past Napoleon at the door with a frown.

“Me too,” he says, moving to pace the floor. 

“Waverly’s working on it,” she says. Napoleon looks over at her and she meets his gaze; he knows Gaby is a force to be reckoned with, but now, with fire in her eyes and steel in her voice, Napoleon knows she could be unstoppable.

“Good,” Napoleon says with a nod. He has no doubt that if Waverly wants Illya, he will get him. Something smooths over in Napoleon’s chest at the idea of Illya being kept safe and away from Oleg and the KGB.

“He’s going to get you, too,” she says, nowhere near as passionately as her claim about Illya. Napoleon jerks nonetheless.

“Oh.” The word escapes as an exhale and he blinks at the idea of being permanently at UNCLE. It’s a nice thought and he feels unexpectedly warm at the knowledge Waverly wants him too. Gaby gives him a soft smile and he almost returns it when they’re interrupted by the sound of the phone being hung up aggressively. They exchange a worried look and Napoleon moves to the bedroom door.

There’s a loud crash from the other room and Gaby’s harsh, “ _Napoleon_ ,” is left behind him as he slips through and closes the door on her. The alcohol in his system in the company of people he trusts makes him daring and he twists his wrist- his magic jams the knob and he can hear Gaby rattle it from the other side. 

Illya hasn’t noticed him yet, too busy focusing his anger on the kitchen table and Napoleon is careful to keep quiet as he moves closer. He finds a space far enough to be safe, but close enough to be heard when Illya takes a moment to breathe raggedly.

“Hey there, Peril,” Napoleon says softly. Illya flinches like Napoleon dealt a blow and he turns, face hard and angry.

“Get out of here,” Illya grinds out through clenched teeth. His fists tremble at his side and Napoleon takes a step closer.

“You’re okay, Illya. You’re safe here,” he says and magic thrums through is words. Golden dust, visible to his eyes only, dance around the room and swirl around Illya’s fists. It moves up Illya’s arms, across his broad shoulders and down his spine.

“Cowboy,” Illya says, but his voice has lost its edge. He just sounds hurt and Napoleon’s chest tightens in sympathy. 

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.” The more Napoleon speaks, the thicker the dust coats Illya and the less he trembles. His face begins to relax and Napoleon steps forward, gripping Illya’s biceps with his hands. At his touch, Illya sags and the golden dust explodes outward, filling the room with as much calming energy as Napoleon could create. Napoleon continues muttering softly to Illya and guides him to a not-yet-destroyed kitchen chair. 

He runs one hand through Illya’s hair comfortingly and looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door and twitches his wrist. The knob twists and the door cracks open before it’s pulled open quickly and Gaby steps out. She hurries over to them and Napoleon lets his hand fall as Gaby approaches. The moment she’s in arm’s length, Illya reaches out and wraps his hands around her waist and pulls her to him. She lets his head rest against her stomach and she looks up at Napoleon.

“What happened?” she mouths and Napoleon gives a half-shake, opens his mouth to speak before he shuts it and shrugs.

“He’s okay,” he says, voice just above a whisper. Her eyes flicker down to the man trembling against her and she nods her agreement. Napoleon feels uncomfortable, feels like the odd man out, standing in the little kitchen while the couple comfort each other. He takes a step away, careful to be silent. Gaby looks up and gives him a tired smile, which Napoleon returns before he sneaks out the door and heads towards his own room.

 

 

**ii.**

UNCLE has a mole. It’s hard to tell where the leak is; UNCLE is still so new to the world of espionage and so many of its members are on loan from other organizations that it’s nearly impossible to tell _who_ and _why_ , but when Waverly finds the location of an information drop of UNCLE safe houses, he sends out Gaby and Napoleon to clean up.

It should’ve been obvious it was a trap, but that’s the thing about traps. The good ones are only detected in hindsight.

They split up, Napoleon going to search the upstairs while Gaby searches the bottom floor.

Napoleon enters what looks like an office and the moment he enters the room, the doors slide shut and the electricity powers out. He knows it’s futile, but he tries pulling the door open anyway. It doesn’t surprise him to find it’s bolted shut and shooting at it only caused the wood door to splinter and reveal the metal enforcement underneath. Frowning with worry churning in his stomach he looks around. There isn’t much in the room; a desk in the center of the room and bookshelves lining two of the walls—both proving to be fake, simply there to tempt him into the room. The main wall is just one big window, looking down into a warehouse. 

He watches in horror as Gaby walks through the threshold into the warehouse and the doors slam shut behind her. She looks on instinct and that’s when the shooting begins.

“Gaby!” he shouts, but she doesn’t react, too far and too distracted to hear him. She dives behind a stack of crates and holds her gun at tightly in both hands.

From his viewpoint, he can see every enemy figure in the warehouse. He steps back against the far wall and shoots his gun at the window; the glass fogs as it cracks but it refuses to shatter. Napoleon’s heart races as he looks around for something, _anything_ , to do.

He has no way to get to her and he watches as she takes aim, but nothing comes out. She ducks back down and tosses the gun down at her feet. She’s out of bullets. Napoleon feels like the world has both drifted out of focus and like everything is too in-focus.

“Gaby!” he shouts again and like she heard him, she glances up and meets his eyes. Her face contorts in concern and he gestures as well as he can, warning her of how many enemies are still surrounding her.

She nods and he watches as she visibly takes a deep, centering breath before creeping towards the edge of her shelter.

Napoleon can’t just stand and watch her make a blind, suicidal run for an enemy gun. Using the adrenaline coursing through him, he closes his eyes and pushes out with his energy. He’s only ever done this once before, back in the war when he had a unit to protect, and it had been an accident then, but he’d never be able to live with himself if he watched her die because he wasn’t strong enough.

He opens his eyes and watches as his magic shimmers around her, covering her in a faint green glow only he can see.

This is more than he’d ever been able to do before. He tracks her as she moves, feeling for the essence of her for lack of being able to touch her. She nods her head, just once, before she bursts out of her pseudo-safety and makes for the next stack of crates.

The bullets wiz past,  _just_  avoiding her. The protection spell Napoleon’s casting keeps with her, covering every inch of her. Pain erupts in Napoleon’s chest. He’s never completed a spell this heavy, this strong. The pain grows with each second and Napoleon’s hands shake as he struggles to catch a breath. He just has to hold on a little longer, she’s just reached a gun and it won’t be long before she subdues the enemy forces in the warehouse. Only a little while longer. He falls to his knees, pressing one hand on the class to keep him at least upright. It feels like heartburn, like someone’s scooped out his insides and filled it with fire instead. 

The last bullet rings out and Napoleon can hear it through the thick bullet-proof glass. He squints open his eyes and sees Gaby, cautiously looking around at the fallen enemies. She’s safe. Napoleon relaxes and his energy comes snapping back like a rubber band. He flinches and lowers himself to the ground on all fours. The floor is cool on his palms and he leans down to press his forehead against it. He’s sweating, feverish, but the floor helps.

He isn’t sure how long he lays there, or how Gaby got out of the warehouse and up to the room he’d been jailed in, but the next thing he’s aware of is her hands under his arms attempting to hoist him up.

“The files,” he croaks, the words dragging out of a too dry mouth when Gaby leads him to the doors.

“I’ll get them,” she promises. “I’m making sure you’re okay first.” She takes him outside and sits him against the wall, feeling for his pulse and looking him over.

“What happened? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, trying to wave her off. “It’s nothing, here.” He presses his gun into her hand.

“Get the files. I’ll be fine.”

Gaby gives him a frown, but nods. She takes his gun and gives his wrist a squeeze before going back in. Napoleon tries to follow her energy, but he’s too exhausted to prod and he resorts to small prayers until he hears her approaching again. He looks up and sees her, a briefcase tight in one fist and the other hand extended to help pull Napoleon to his feet.

He stands, the brief rest enough to give him energy to keep up with her without slowing her too much. They make it to their getaway car and Napoleon sinks into the passenger seat, his whole body aching, but he watches attentively out the windows.

“Were you drugged?” she asks softly and Napoleon takes a deep breath. He wishes she hadn’t asked. He hates lying to her, to them.

“I think it was just something they put in the room,” he lies, “I’m fine, just a little tired.”

He can feel her looking at him, but he doesn’t do anything but look out the window. She doesn’t say anything more until they get to their safe house. Illya meets them at the door and his hands hover over Gaby worriedly.

“Are you alright?” he asks them. Gaby nods and moves into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and Napoleon watches Illya breath in soft relief. Napoleon moves past them, keeping his eyes averted from their reunion, and heads to the kitchen. He needs water and then sleep. He can hear Gaby recounting the events to Illya, her words are drowned out by the sound of the faucet running, but resume soft and clear when he turns the water off. He sips slowly, leaning against the counter, and listens to them softly talk. He’s glad, so relieved, that they’re both here and safe.

“You were lucky,” Illya says and something in Napoleon chafes at the words. She was—they were. But he does wish they knew more, knew what he did. He downs the rest of the water and puts his glass on the edge of the sink, shaking away those thoughts.

If they find out, if anyone ever finds out, what he can do… his life will be over. He’ll be hunted or tested on; either way, he’s finished.

He walks out of the kitchen and creeps to his room, trying to pretend he doesn’t see that they’ve moved to cuddling on the couch, taking solace in each other’s company.

 

  

**iii.**

Once again Napoleon finds himself jumping out of a window after Illya, however this time there’s actual water underneath them and Gaby is close at his heels. Napoleon presses himself to sink before kicking off. His eyes burn under the water, but he can just make out Illya’s feet and follows after him. Only when his lungs are burning does he break the surface of the water and only does so to gasp a breath before diving back under again. It’s not too much longer until they’re far enough that the threat of bullets is gone and when Napoleon breaks surface again, he allows himself to all but pant as he gets air to his burning lungs. The three of them bob in the water, catching their breath, watching as alarms blare from the small island, but they have no pursuers, thanks to Illya’s boat tampering.

“She knew you,” Illya says accusingly and Napoleon’s glad they’re under the cover of night so he doesn’t have to see Illya’s sure to be stern expression.

“Yes, she was a, how do I put this delicately,” he pauses to be an annoyance, “spurned lover.”

Illya huffs and before he can say anything else, Gaby quickly interjects. 

“I think the more important issue is that she knew where we were staying.” Her tone is pointed and Napoleon lets himself sink just a little, so that the water covers his mouth before floating back up. They’re all silent a moment as they think about what to do, the only sound is their breath above the water and the sound of water lapping against them.

“I have a house, not even the CIA knows about it. It should be safe.”

“After you, Cowboy,” Illya says and Napoleon starts swimming.

It doesn’t take long to get to the shore, but once they get there, they’re thoroughly chilled. Napoleon wraps his arms around himself and tries to keep his teeth from chattering. It’s not too cold out, not cold enough for the threat of hypothermia anyways, but Napoleon finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that he was as skilled a witch as his siblings were, if only so that he could cast away the water and be dry—he tries not to be bitter about the fact that they’d been able to do complex spells and he can barely keep himself alive. 

They walk in silence as Napoleon leads them to a car he hotwires and Gaby drives. Illya climbs in the back seat and it’s a short drive. They park the car in a different neighborhood and walk to a house that is deceptively casual. 

“This is it?” Gaby asks and Napoleon smirks at her.

“It’s a safe house, Gabs, it’s supposed to be innocuous.”

“Even for you, it’s deceiving,” Illya says and bumps his shoulder against Napoleon’s.

“Just wait until you step inside, Peril,” Napoleon says, “The decadence of the West is still very much present.”

“I’d be concerned if it wasn’t.”

Napoleon huffs a laugh and leads them around back. They walk to the back of the yard and enter through a secret door in the shed. It leads to a narrow tunnel that opens into the kitchen. Napoleon grabs a flashlight out of a drawer and goes to the fireplace in the living room. He starts a small fire going and then turns to them.

“I have pajamas; in the morning I can go out and get everyone clothes.” He leads them to the bedroom and pulls out a pair of pajamas. They smell stale, stagnant from the years of misuse, but he hands them to Gaby who looks all too excited to get out of her cold, wet clothes. He hands another pair to Illya, who takes them with a frown.

“I’m not wearing these,” he says.

“Then you’re not sitting on my furniture,” Napoleon replies easily, grabbing some pajamas for himself.

“These will be too small. I do not want to look foolish.” Illya’s voice comes out surprisingly petulant and Napoleon can’t hide a fond smile fast enough.

“I think they’ll be just fine, Peril,” Napoleon says, tapping absentmindedly on the clothes in Illya’s hand. White magic falls from his fingertips at his touch and sinks into the fabric. It’s a small, thoughtless manipulation that stays glowing faintly until Illya sighs and shakes out the clothes. The pants unfold and with a shake, they’re the correct size. Illya doesn’t notice until he puts them on; his eyes widen in surprise at the pant length, at the broadness of the shirt’s shoulders.

Gaby comes back from the bathroom and looks endearingly small in Napoleon’s clothes and Illya looks at their outfits with a confused frown. 

“They fit,” he says, his voice with an upward lit of confusion, and Napoleon waves him off.

“Comfort, Illya. It’s all about the comfort.” Napoleon leaves the room, goofily walking Gaby back into the hall before leading towards the living room, which has already warmed significantly due to the fire. The chill starts to leave his bones and he takes off the dustcover on his furniture. 

It’s clear Illya still is pondering the pajama size, but Napoleon puts off further talk by pouring some alcohol for everyone as they decide what to do next in their mission. They talk in circles around each other and in the end, they’re left tired with no definitive course of action. 

“I think we’ll all feel better about decisions after a solid’s night sleep,” Napoleon says and Illya rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I agree,” he says behind his hand and Gaby nods, eyelids drooping but she puts on a valiant effort to look alert.

“You two can take the bedroom; I’ll take the couch.” He leans his head against the back of the couch and feels them shift without even having to look.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Napoleon,” Gaby says. There’s a soft pause and Napoleon peeks his eyes open. In the firelight, she looks beautiful; long shadows bounce around the soft planes of her face and the orange flickers in her eyes like cooling amber. “This is your bed. We can’t put you out on the sofa. Come join us, there’s more than enough space.” Her voice gets light, teasing, at the end, and all at once, Napoleon is awake. His heart starts up a quick beat and he clears his throat to buy himself some time to respond. He aches to say  _yes_. He thinks he’ll drive himself mad with want, but this wasn’t a true proposition, it wasn’t anything more than good-natured guilt. 

He gives them a soft smile. “Don’t worry about me, Miss Teller,” he says and his voice comes out even, steady. “I assure you all my furniture is worth sleeping on,” he winks and wiggles further into the plush cushions. 

She nods but when he peeks an eye open, she’s still staring at him and Illya is still watching her. 

“Well, if you insist,” she says softly and Napoleon wants to frown at that. At how soft her voice has become. He doesn’t; he sends them a sleepy smile instead. 

“Goodnight,” he says and it’s spoken with finality. Gaby nods and sends him a half-smile and turns to go into the bedroom. 

“Cowboy,” Illya says, a complicated look on his face before ducking after her. 

Napoleon wasn’t lying. His couch is just as soft and comfortable as his bed, but he doesn’t get much sleep that night. 

 

 

**iv.**

In the morning, he closes his eyes when he hears Peril begin to stir and keeps them closed as he hears the tread of him walking to the bathroom and the sound of the shower running. 

Napoleon is struck with a sudden, vicious ache to join him. He imagines gently soaping Illya up in his expensive, soft smelling soaps. Imagines how Illya would have to duck his head, crouch just a little, so Napoleon could wash shampoo out of his hair. He- 

Napoleon jerks, eyes opening wide and all but shakes himself away from those thoughts.

 

Illya goes back to the bedroom and it’s not much longer until both he and Gaby emerge, talking in soft tones and giggling in the kitchen. Napoleon thinks this is a special kind of torture.  

He gives up all pretenses of sleep and wanders into the kitchen. Illya is leaning against the counter beside the stove and Gaby is carefully cooking something. He can only see Illya’s face, but it’s one of absolute adoration as he looks at Gaby. Illya’s eyes flicker over to Napoleon and he smiles a little wider, lips pulled into almost a part.  

“Good morning,” he says and he’s been up for hours, his voice has no right to be so husky. Gaby turns at Illya’s words and she beams a smile at him. 

“Just in time,” she says. “I made breakfast” 

Illya moves to grab the food to take to the table and Gaby turns towards the dishes. Napoleon has a soft smile on his face as he watches them move around in his kitchen, like they  _belong_  there and nowhere else. 

Gaby turns towards the table, but her foot gets caught on the rug. With a handful of heavy plates, she isn’t able to catch her balance. Without thinking, Napoleon reaches out and his magic flows invisibly from his fingers; it wraps around Gaby in a half-second, dusting her in a faint blue glow, and he pushes her upright. She stands, stable and hesitating, face twisted in confusion. Napoleon steps forward and takes the plates from her in one smooth motion.

“Alright there, Miss Teller?” he asks as he steps forward, reaching out to touch her arm, feather-light, before moving away towards the table.

She looks preoccupied when she smiles over at him. There’s a little wrinkle of confusion between her eyebrows but she huffs a laugh anyways, bringing up her free hand to run through her hair. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says and physically shakes herself out of thought.

Illya walks in and sees the plates now in Napoleon’s hand. His eyes fall to Gaby and he moves to her, putting his arm around her waist. 

“Come on,” he says, guiding Gaby to the table. “Cowboy.” Illya looks up, the same warm smile he directed at Gaby still on his face. Napoleon’s heart beats loud in his ears and he’s quick to turn away lest the heat on his face is too obvious.

 

 

**v.**

Napoleon knows he’s not the most skilled witch in the world, but his powers have kept him safe and alive. He left home to follow his brother into war at fourteen and he was far from complete in the trainings his parents gave him. His siblings had powers he’s never been able to replicate; his sister could make people bend to her will and his brother had such a strong command over the environment he could summon rain in a drought. He knows his powers are underdeveloped, but since leaving home he’s never run into another witch and it hasn’t been too much of a problem in his life. He’s not helpless without magic, so he doesn’t lose too much sleep over it.

Now, though, as he creeps through the fog that winds and thickens around him in a way that rarely occurs in nature, he wishes he were as powerful as his brother—strong enough to cast the fog away so that he can see.

He doesn’t know where his team is and he’s long since learned to listen to the uneasy feeling twisting his stomach that means danger is nearby. He crouches and keeps moving, tightening his hold on the gun in his hand. The sound of his footsteps are muffled, but they still feel too loud in the silence. His eyes strain unsuccessfully to make out anything through the twisting swirl of white-grey cloud.

Then, there’s the sound of a gunshot. In a beat, someone retaliates and the air lights up with sound; the gunshots echo across the space and the shouts of people yelling over top of one another make it hard to pinpoint the location of enemies or allies. As the shooting goes on, the fog lessens and Napoleon’s quick to find shelter, putting the thought of another witch in the back of his mind. It’s still cloudy, but Napoleon can _see_. He steadies his gun and shoots at enemy forces, ducking when his fire is returned. He tries to look for the witch, certain they’d look a little too concentrated, but he can’t tell from his distance.

The UNCLE agents under his command are spaced out and low on ammunition. This was simply supposed to be a routine surveillance operation; no one was packed for an all-out ambush.

Without thinking, he peers around his shelter and blue magic drips off his fingers, flowing down and through the legs of his agents before snaking up the few enemy agents in range. Blue settles around their torso and Napoleon’s hand clenches and pulls. They fall to their knees and grip at their chests before Napoleon lets them go. He moves to them swiftly, knocking them out and trading their gun for his empty one.

Napoleon moves closer to his team, darting forward as far as he can until he’s within earshot. Despite being overwhelmed, UNCLE agents are some of the best agents in the world and they’ve managed to hold their own just fine. He looks around and sees Gaby duck behind a thick mess of tree branches and brush. Illya looks around the other side and Napoleon feels relief so strongly it leaves him a little breathless. He reaches out with green protection; the light catches on the fog and lends it an eerie glow only Napoleon can see. He watches as it coats the bramble of sticks the two are hiding behind and concentrates until he’s positive it will remain with them. Only then does he return himself to the fight. It’s not as hard as he thought it would be, thankfully Illya and Gaby stay together and in one place, but Napoleon’s able to keep up the steady stream of protection while taking down enemy agents.

And then he’s hit. 

Fire shoots through him and he falls back behind the safety of his shelter, hand going to his shoulder. It comes away bloody and his eyes close in pain for an instant as he takes a sharp breath in and rises back up. He grabs his gun in the other hand and takes aim; there’s a man in his line of sight, gun drawn but looking off to the left—towards the brambles masking Illya and Gaby. Napoleon’s eyes flicker over and a rush of electricity runs through him at the vulnerable lack of magic there. 

Napoleon pulls the trigger and green shoots from his hands instantaneously. It wraps the brambles in light and Napoleon ducks down, keeping his eyes on the shelter covering them.

He waits.

And waits.

Nausea turns his stomach, fighting its way through his throat and he swallows hard against it. The sound of gunshots taper off and still, he waits. 

He glances around and sees his agents quickly restraining the living enemy agents and checking on the wounded UNCLE agents. He stands and sucks in a breath at the movement, but clenches his teeth and continues on, stumbling towards Illya and Gaby.

He rounds the corner and falls to his knees. 

Red mars Gaby’s chest, soaking through her gear. Illya matches; blood stained hands pressing futilely against his abdomen.

“No, no, no, no,” Napoleon murmurs, feeling for a pulse on Gaby’s neck. Illya moans and Napoleon looks up to see Illya’s eyes are open, clouded in pain. Napoleon says Illya’s name like a prayer and reaches over to grab his hand. Illya makes a noise of pain, but Napoleon can’t let go. Illya says something in Russian, too soft to understand, and Napoleon feels lost, adrift. Gaby’s pulse is thready and weak; she won’t make the trip to the hospital. Napoleon knows this without a shadow of a doubt. With the amount of blood in Illya’s shirt, soaking into the ground around him, Napoleon doesn’t think he’ll last much longer than Gaby.

He’s going to lose them both because he failed them. 

Emotion wells up in him and he remembers his mother, a distant memory of her healing a skinned knee, of her kissing the pink, healed skin and telling him to be careful. This… this is so much more than a skinned knee, but he has to _try_.

Tears well in his eyes and he tries to swallow around the knot in his throat.

“Close your eyes, Illya,” he says and his voice cracks. “Just close your eyes.” 

Napoleon’s not sure if Illya obeys or if he loses consciousness and the tears fall down his cheeks, dripping off his face as a sob escapes from his chest. He prays to anyone listening to help him and words fall from his lips in every language he knows.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” he says, “ _Please, I love you. I’ll fix this. You’ll be okay._ ”

He reaches out with closed eyes; his magic flows over them, mapping their bodies and concentrating over their fatal wounds. Near-silent prayers fall from his lips as he imagines the bullets leaving, as he wills the skin closed and the heart to keep pumping.

His chest aches like its being compressed and his hands shake. Illya groans and Napoleon can hear Gaby’s raspy breath and then she _screams_. Napoleon opens his eyes to see them wholly enveloped in red, his magic coating them like a second skin. He can hear agents rushing towards them and he feels dizzy. Gaby’s pulse is stronger, faster, under his fingertips and Illya’s fingers are tight on his wrist.

Agents rush around the corner and Napoleon falls to the ground, Illya’s voice echoing in his ears.

 

 

**iv.**

Napoleon wakes up slowly; his hospital room slowly drifts into focus and then he jolts as he remembers why he’s there. He sits up and then gasps as pain from his shoulder lights up his body. His hand ghosts along the thick gauze there and he takes a deep, stabilizing breath before pushing himself out of the bed. He’s unsteady on his feet and the opens the door, looking out into the hall as nurses walk past. 

“Excuse me,” he says and a nurse jumps when she looks over at him.

“You’re awake!” she says and hurries to him. “You shouldn’t be up! Someone call Dr. Santos.” She puts her arm around his waist and steers him back into the room.

“How long have I been out?” he asks as she forces him onto the bed.

“A few days,” she says, fussing with the blanket on his lap. “The doctor will be in in a moment." 

“I need to call someone,” Napoleon says.

“Mr. Solo, the doctor will be in shortly.”

Napoleon’s eyes dart up to her face at the use of his name. He’s in an UNCLE facility, then, which means Waverly should be around. Napoleon gives the nurse a smile as she leaves and waits a moment to be certain she’s gone before he makes his way out of bed and to the door. His hand is on the knob when it’s pulled open and he’s left to blink sheepishly at the doctor giving him a stern look.

“Agent Solo, I believe you were instructed to stay in bed.”

“Sir, I need to find out what happened to my team.”

The doctor nods and gestures to someone to the side.

“I thought that might be the issue. I assure you, your team is fine, Mr. Solo. If you let me check you over, I will be more than happy to allow you to check on the few agents in our care.”

Napoleon agrees and moves back to the bed, sitting on the edge as the doctor walks further into the room.

“We were worried about you,” he says, shining a light in Napoleon’s eyes. “We weren’t sure why you lost consciousness.” Dr. Santos pokes and prods, asks question after question until he’s satisfied. He brings a wheelchair into the room from the hall and Napoleon grudgingly sits down and lets himself be wheeled down the hall.

There are only three agents, aside from Napoleon, that were still hospitalized; everyone else was either uninjured or it was minor.

Agent Johnson’s recovering from surgery and smiles when Napoleon comes to his room. Satisfied, Napoleon leaves after they talk and the nurse wheels him to the next room just as Waverly is leaving it.

“Ah, Solo,” he says and pats Napoleon on his uninjured shoulder. “So good to see you up and at ‘em." 

“Thank you, sir,” Napoleon says and Waverly smiles at him.

“Did you say _Solo_?” Gaby asks, voice clear and demanding. Waverly looks over his shoulder with a fond huff.

“I’ll stop by after you’ve had some time to visit. Don’t strain yourself, Agent.” Napoleon nods; the nurse wheels him in as Waverly makes his way down the hall.

Gaby sees him first and beams at him. “Napoleon!” she exclaims and Illya’s eyes widen.

“Cowboy,” he says, voice much softer. Tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying melts from his body at the sight of them, safe and alive. His eyes burn and he blinks the budding tears away quickly.

“Hey, guys.” His voice is thick with emotion and the nurse wheels him in-between the two beds and touches his shoulder briefly.

“I’ll check in in a bit,” she says and leaves the room.

Silence barely has time to fall before Gaby’s throwing her covers back and stiffly climbing out of bed.

“Gaby,” Illya warns softly, but she waves him off.

“Gabs, you really shouldn’t get up-” Napoleon starts but suddenly she’s right in front of him, situating herself to sit on his lap.

“You were unconscious for three days Napoleon. _Three_. We could’ve lost you.” She leans against his chest, head resting on his uninjured shoulder in the mimicry of a hug. He brings one arm to rest in her lap, taking her hands in his, and the other wraps around her back, holding her waist.

“I’m fine, Gaby.”

“I know,” she says. “But you _weren’t_.” She straightens and looks deep into his eyes.

“A shot to the shoulder shouldn’t have kept you unconscious for three days.”

Napoleon’s heart skips a beat and without conscious thought, his eyes flicker to Illya, who is staring just as seriously at him as Gaby is.

“Surely you’re not suggesting I was faking it,” Napoleon says, attempting to be lighthearted, but it only made the room more stifling.

“Gaby, now isn’t the time-”

“Now is the only time, Illya,” Gaby snaps back without looking away from Napoleon.

“I think you did something to us,” Gaby continues, voice losing its edge but not its determination. “ _For_ us.”

Ice chills his veins. She’s figuring it out.

“Done something?” he asks, going for oblivious. “What could I have done?”

Gaby narrows her eyes and Napoleon’s eyes flicker to Illya and back to Gaby again. “I don’t know,” she says after a moment of silence. “You… you healed us somehow.”

“Gabs,” Napoleon interrupts and she bristles at the tone.

“Fine, let’s see your wound. Let’s see what a bullet did to you, because I’ll show you what it did to me.”

She unties the robe she’s wearing and lets it fall off her shoulders. Then, carefully, she removes the gauze and tape on her chest to reveal a suture, skin faintly red with healing.

“Illya’s looks the same, but prove me wrong. Show me yours looks like this.”

Napoleon lowers his eyes in embarrassed shame and she replaces the tape on her chest and ties her robe.

“I don’t know how and I don’t think this is the first time,” she says and heat burns through Napoleon. He’s not sure what to expect. No one’s ever found out what he is before, but he’s heard stories and the thought sends a shiver racing down his spine.

“But thank you,” she says and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. He looks up at her and his eyes dart to Illya, who’s looking at him with a worried expression. When he looks back at her, she’s wearing a matching look.

“You saved our life,” Illya says. “You don’t have to tell us how; just know we’re your _partners_.” He says the word like a promise. With a flash of heat, Napoleon remembers the words he’d said when he thought they were dying, remembers Illya’s voice calling his name as he slipped into unconsciousness.

“We care about you, Napoleon,” Gaby says and squeezes his hand.

All at once the nervous energy flooding his body disappears and he feels like he can breathe again. Still, he has to swallow and gather himself before he speaks again. They wait in patient silence, expecting nothing from him but prepared nonetheless.

“I’m a witch,” he says after a long moment. The rush he feels at those words makes the hair on the base of his neck stand up.

“A witch?”

Napoleon nods and Gaby strokes her thumb across the back of his hand.

“Okay,” Illya says after a beat and Gaby mirrors him, pressing another daring kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Napoleon copies and smiles softly at the two of them. He knows they’ll have questions, but for now they’ll accept what he’s offered and are offering him something of their own. He’s safe. He’s loved.

He’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic exchange prompt that ended up inspiring a lot more ideas than I could jot down before the deadline so I've made this a series just in case! Leave me your thoughts! 
> 
> you can find me at screamingarrows.tumblr.com :)


End file.
